


Close Surveillance

by Jenwryn



Category: Death Note
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Plot What Plot, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-23
Updated: 2009-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:45:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt has reached the point where he really doesn't care anymore.</p><p>Matt/Misa. Also Matt/Mello UST and Misa/Light UST.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Surveillance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tierfal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/gifts).



> Tierfal challenged me to write a one-sentence fic, for any pairing which I had never tried before. I failed. Because this blended with a pairing which I have written often. And is also in no shape nor form one sentence, lol. Ah well. I'm also pretty sure this has been written a thousand times, haha. :P
> 
> Also, you know I'm not anti-Mello. Stop looking at me like that! &gt;_&gt;
> 
> Unbeta'd, as per always.

When his bitchy best friend had ordered him to put the girl under close surveillance, this probably hadn't been what he'd had in mind. He probably wouldn't approve, either, though he wouldn't show it beyond a smirk and an angry glare; Mello likes his bubble of denial. No, this wasn't what Mello had meant, but Matt thinks he's reached the point where he honest-to-god no longer cares.

There's something intoxicating about this, about the coarseness of it all, wound up in the silky softness of the girl's skin beneath his warm, demanding hands. There's something about the way she pouts her lips, something about the way she insists, for the umpteenth time, that this is the _last time ever and I mean it, Matt_. There's something about the way her cheeks colour with guilt-ridden pink even as she slides willingly into his lap, even as she straddles him, even as she presses bare skin against bare skin. She tells him that they can't keep doing this – she says it _every single time_, like a mantra learnt by rote; she tells him that she loves somebody else. She says it, and he nods, and then she rakes purple nails down his shoulder blades and throws her head back, moaning beneath his touch. She doesn't mean it. She does. It doesn't matter. He doesn't love her either. But this, this is like a drug, and it's wrong, and it's forbidden, and it's a flash of diamond in a dirty alleyway. These moments, these moments are flesh and need and beaded sweat, frozen kisses of time hidden from all the people depending on them, misjudging them, taking them for granted. And perhaps that's what makes it feel so real, Matt thinks, as he brushes blonde, blonde, achingly blonde hair away from her neck, to suck and kiss at the pale skin hidden there.

If sometimes he slips up, and murmurs a different name in place of hers, as the heat spills from him in release, as she clenches against him... it really doesn't matter. Because sometimes she does the same.


End file.
